Walking the Bottom Line
by scullyseviltwin
Summary: Problem was... she knew exactly what she was doing. It was everyone else who seemed to be confused on that point. Post Bloodlines.


How insanely ridiculous of her. She was smarter than that, so much smarter than that. But she wasn't thinking when she knocked back the beers and climbed into her car. She wasn't thinking when she turned the key in the ignition, that was damned sure. It hadn't mattered at the time; she just needed to be surrounded by people, needed to hear the delicate buzz of alcohol rushing to her head.

The breathalyzer tasted like defeat in her mouth and she pressed her lips into a thin line when the officer took it and shook her head.

"Where are you headed?" he'd asked her, ushering her to the back of the squad car. The back of a squad car... how very embarrassing. It smelled like mold and sweat and she wondered if someone she'd help to put away had sat in the very spot that she was sitting.

Wrapping your mind around such irony is almost amusing...

Home, you dipshit, I was headed home; just let me go home. "I was going home," she muttered as the cruiser pulled away from the curb and she watched the garish lights pull at the edge of her vision. Something within her swam; the vomit rose in her throat, repulsion for herself overtaking her thin frame. She didn't release it, merely tucked it away, deep down with everything else she wouldn't allow herself to emit.

If she'd cared enough she really would have felt like shit, but in that moment it was just another snag on the way to getting to where she actually wanted to be. There were hang ups along the way, but she was about to outrun them. She could see herself flicking the lever, signaling a left turn but abruptly swerving right at the last moment and laughing when everyone asked her what the hell she was doing.

Problem was... she knew exactly what she was doing. It was everyone else who seemed to be confused on that point.

It was so blue inside P.D. So blue. The walls, the people, all blue. Was that the color of justice? Was that even the point? She let that thought trickle away as they printed her and ran her through the system, realizing she was a CSI. They all shook their heads just a little when the little box popped up on the screen. A CSI, how sad; how pathetic. In her head she was giving them the finger but in reality she was leaning against the counter with a bored countenance, wanting to just friggin sleep.

They made her sit in another blue room and told her to wait there, someone was coming for her. That made her laugh right out loud. 'Not coming here willingly,' she thought and twiddled her thumbs.

He came to pick her up, of course he came. There was a boatload of guilt that he could get rid of by doing this one favor for her. Of course, that must have been the reason. He certainly wasn't there because he cared about her... then again, even if he was, she didn't care. Too little, way too fucking late. Sometimes it just came down to that.

There were bottom lines and then there were bottom lines and she'd pulled a few muscles trying to move past it even though there was nowhere to go from there.

She felt him before she saw him. She felt his eyes on her, that split second that he lingered in the doorway and toggled with ideas about her: was she insane? Should he even be here? What would she think? Was she okay?

But then he walked to her, straight to her and took her hand in his. How could he be so damned delicate after all this time? How was it even possible? His thumb stroked so delicately over the skin of her hand. It cracked her. He wasn't allowed to touch her like that after all this time, after all that had happened. He wasn't allowed.

No more, she couldn't take any more of it. She was letting herself rot while people took chunks of her away to keep. Not anymore.

In that one second, that one instance, Sara Sidle shattered apart and there was no one around who was willing to pick up the pieces. It was logical really, they were jagged, sharp. Someone might get hurt trying to help her back to normal.

"Come on, let me take you home..."

'Fuck you', she thought. Even as she thought about how stupid she had been doing what she had did... even as she thought about how he was reaching out to her... it wasn't enough. It would never, ever, ever be enough. Some things she had to let go of and before she'd simply clung to him, the one thing she would take down with her when she went... but now...

The image of him, soft and reassuring slid away from her mind and she remembered all the times he wouldn't allow himself to see her.

It all turned to dust and was gone.

Her head fell to her hands simply because she couldn't believe what she was about to tell him. It was time; it was most certainly time to regain herself, steal back all the pieces of herself that he'd taken when she wasn't looking.

"No really though," she spoke hopefully. She spoke with a certain spark that he adhered to.

Grissom glanced at her, his heart in his hands... well no, his heart trying to jump from his chest but finding it unable to do so.

"Fuck you," she spoke and walked from P.D. to hail herself a cab.

Like she needed him...

She didn't need anyone. Not anymore.


End file.
